


Pierced Ears, Pierced Heart

by bluelionsbish



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxiety Attacks, Character Death, Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Golden Deer Route, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Mentioned Black Eagles Students (Fire Emblem), Mentioned Blue Lions Students (Fire Emblem), Original Character(s), Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Racism, References to Depression, Sleep Deprivation, War, i feel robbed, im sorry for what i did to ashe, why didnt the game delve into claudes background
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2021-01-30 04:44:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21422398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluelionsbish/pseuds/bluelionsbish
Summary: Reds. Yellows. Oranges and golds. Reds. Red as crimson, red as blood; blood she's spilled, blood that wets her hands no matter how often or how hard she tries to clean them. It never disappears.Her sins willnever disappear.
Relationships: Annette Fantine Dominic/Reader, Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert/Reader, Claude von Riegan & Original Character(s), Claude von Riegan/Original Female Character(s), Claude von Riegan/You
Comments: 2
Kudos: 42





	Pierced Ears, Pierced Heart

**Author's Note:**

> y'all idek what this is. i'm pretty sure i still have drugs in my system from my operation. pretty much everyone is dead and/or dying, enjoy.  
still no beta bcs we STILL DIE LIKE GLENN. punctuation and proper grammar have always been optional for me. as well as finding synonyms for look/looks/glance/glances LMAO HAVE FUN

Everything seems ashen and grey, despite the vibrancy of the colours falling from the treetops.  
Reds. Yellows. Oranges and golds. Reds. Red as crimson, red as blood; blood she's spilled, blood that wets her hands no matter how often she tries to clean them. It never disappears.  
Her sins will never _disappear._

Her footfalls are heavy and tired. They're loud, purposefully so, so that the world around her doesn't seem so quiet. She can't take the quiet, almost as much as she can't take the _noise—_the sounds of fire and armour and war. They don't leave her for even a moment.

She rounds the corner and heads straight. There's really no set destination; wherever her feet may take her, that's where she'll be. But there's only so much to explore on the estate before her mind begins to work again and her steps falter.

She counts the years on her fingers. It's been four. Four long years since Byleth disappeared; four long years of blinding terror and copper showers. They had moulded her into someone who no longer smiled. She could no longer reminisce about tranquil, bygone days. She couldn't afford to, if the phantom blade in her heart had any say.

She is a far cry from the woman she used to be. She can't remember when last she laughed—but she could remember the last time she cried. She had knelt, a mere few days ago, in the packed dirt and gore of yet another battlefield, cradling the boy named Ashe to her chest. She had cut him down. He hadn't deserved the end he met, she knew that, but she had done it just the same. There was no hesitance in her swing, not when he had taken aim at Hilda and _fired_.

Ashe used to tend to the gardens with her. He used to tend the gardens, gentle in his touch and gentler still with his voice, and all the same he had been felled, silent as a grave as he had gone down. The place he landed _would_ become his grave; as far as he was on the outlying skirmishes, no one would come to collect him_, _and she wouldn't move him.

She remembers how clearly she could see his form like this—how she could see the way his blood peppered his own face, a gory parallel to the smattering of the freckles that sat across his cheeks and nose. The blood seemed alive, with bubbling tendrils wrapping and trailing their way down his neck like a vine, blooming red in the mirror image of his favourite roses.

There are many things she is unsure of—when she'll die, who will follow her to the afterlife, or who will pave that journey before her. She doesn't know if _this_ is worth it; worth her sorrows and her woes. She doesn't know how long she can remain grasping at the thin strands of her sanity before it tries to leave her. She can feel it slipping away, piece by piece, memory by memory. Her happiness once did the same thing, and her hope has been shoved down to the very bowels of her heart, locked away as if never to see the light of day. Fear is the only stagnant emotion now, and it seizes her chest in a vice-like grip.

There is only one thing she is sure of. There is one thing she knows how to do, and it is to forge her way onward. She doggedly makes her way through piles of bodies, of oceans of tears and broken cries. She wills herself to forget all the warmth behind their smiles and the way they once called her friend, as if she would never have to face them and break their skin; as if she wouldn't have to watch them choke on their own blood the moment she'd rip open their necks.

It would have been easier had they not had names. It would have been easier if her heart didn't break a little more everyday, a little more each time she was met with another pair of lifeless eyes and another phantom image in the guise of a mangled uniform.

There is no room in her heart for forgiveness. Not for Edelgard, whatever her reasons might have been, for turning her life on its head. There is no forgiveness now that she's been thrown into a world of crimson and failing breath. There will be a day the war would end, and it will end with her lance impaled in Edelgard's chest, saccharine blood comfortingly coating her hands. It is the only blood she now desires to see.

She walks straight, still. Her feet are simultaneously light and weighty. The Riegan estate she wanders feels like a prison.

There are servants flitting about; most ignoring her as they carry out their duties. Many of them had been the victims of siege, left with nowhere to go after their towns had been desecrated amongst all the fighting and dying. Claude hadn't smiled when he welcomed them with open arms.

Her mind meanders to thoughts of the alliance. They are...at odds. Many lords are in favour of the empire, beguiled by the empty promises of peace and fortune that had tumbled from the empress's painted lips. She has a feeling Hubert is the mastermind behind the mass manipulation. He is just as crafty as Claude, only abundantly more ruthless and consequently more _dangerous. _

Just as many are in support of Claude, however, who is now _Duke _Riegan and the current head of the Leicester alliance. He is a smart man, aware of the internal conflicts and discord. The alliance had never truly been at peace with itself, with their leaders squabbling like petty school children even during her days at the monastery. Claude could only shake his head at her when tales of their bickering made its way to his ears. His mouth was perpetually upturned at the corners of his lips, as if he were laughing at a private joke. A joke she has never been privy to. But the man often found humour in things that many would not consider a laughing matter.

She doesn't know if she appreciates his lackadaisical tendencies.

Claude still smiles, though only in rare moments He still knows _how _to smile, despite the fact his grins never seem to reach his eyes. There is hope in his gaze instead, and she knows he is waiting for something, _someone_ even, ever so patiently. He has a plan, a notion rather, and he is practically brimming with an emotion that is so displaced she can't recognize it even as she tries to name it.

This lack of knowing makes her miss her home. A place she once understood so well it was as commonplace as the back of her hand. She misses her people and the lands; misses the smell of the rains and the feeling of the warm breezes that sweep in from across the valleys...she misses the peace. If only there was still a home to return to.

More than anything, she wants to feel like she belongs again. Fódlan is still alien to her. It is foreign in all the wrong ways and chokes her with a climbing unease. She had meant for this place to be a temporary stop amidst her travels, but when she had been enveloped by a band of equally strange mercenaries, all gruff voices and marked faces, she had paused. They had been warm and offered her a haven when she felt she had none.

☆

Byleth was a blessing in disguise, even with his stoic features and idiosyncrasies. He was a steadfast companion, and her equal in battle. There was a kindred spirit in his soul, a relative ease that smothered her with the want to remain with him as long as she could. When things had taken a turn and the man somehow wound up teaching at the monastery, he made sure she wasn't left behind, wasn't forgotten, and that's when she knew that one day, she may be able to call this place home. 

It had been a sunny day at the monastery, hot and dry, when she had been doused in the beautifully refreshing shades of gold and green. It had been abrupt and alarming, like a bucket of ice-cold water, and it had been completely _enthralling_. She is still entranced by those very colours. She had been from the moment she sat at the back of Byleth's class one afternoon, watching Claude and the others with such intensity it was as if her life depended on it.

She had failed to realize just how much she enjoyed her days there, before the monastery had erupted in black flames.

She sometimes wonders why she hadn't just packed up and left, returned to wherever it was she desired to return to. She knew no one would blame her for her departure, she had no ties to Fódlan, and peace would be welcome. But even as she came up with excuse after excuse that would allow her to run, she knew—these people _were_ her home. She hadn't been far off when she first realized it, chasing after Byleth's retreating figure.

Claude is home, to her. Hilda's smile is home, Ignatz's ramblings are home, Raphael's boisterousness and Marianne's timid nature; Leonie's enthusiasm, Cyril's biting remarks and Lysithia's snark, even Lorenz's insufferable monologues—they are all _home._

But home had also been in her sparring with Felix, and singing with Dorothea. It had been in Linhardt's dozing and Caspar's yelling; Sylvain's flirting and Ingrid's strength, Bernie's squeals, Ashe's flowers, Dedue's scars; Mercedes' baking, Annette's clumsy charm. It had even been in Dimitri's laughter, still yet in Ferdie's elegance and Hubert's lack thereof. Home had been in Edelgard's embrace, once.

She more frequently wonders why everything had to end up this way.

She misses them all--misses Dimitri, whose laughter had been warped by absolute misery into howls of anguish. His anguish had turned to rage; a rage that broke him and made him into a monster.

Then, he was gone; tortured and hung for crimes of treason he had never committed. He was dead—like many of the others she had once held dear to her heart.

The war had torn apart any semblance of family. It had made her companions bleed, made them cry, ripped them in two from the inside out. Her own hands had been the cause of their strife, despite how all she had wanted was to protect them. She had wanted to protect them, _love_ them, hold them and cherish them. But they had come for her while wielding weapons and magic, and it left her with no choice. They fought for what they believed in. She fought for her ideals. So she had stopped them, destroyed them, and it had left her feeling empty.

She has yet to erase the image of Annette's broken body from her mind.

Claude had been pensive after that battle. As if he were finally realizing the scope of his plans, and the consequences that he, try as he might, would not be able to avoid. She supposes that there was a chance that they had been his home too, homes he had watched die when her lance found its mark.

But neither she nor Claude could afford to look back. She had made her decision, and could only accept the carnage that bathed their depraved aftermath.

She sighs. Her feet are cemented in one spot. She's in the stables and isn't necessarily surprised by this, so she sits and leans up against a stall. The stables here at the Riegan residence are slightly more spacious than the ones at Garreg Mach. Marianne, when she was able to travel, often visited to tend to Dorte. No one has quite figured out how the monk was able to get him out of the stables amidst the chaos.

She stretches out a sore spot in her back. She thinks the stables could use some cleaning, but can't muster up the will to do so. Claude very rarely comes to the stables, so she figures it won't hurt to push mucking the stalls by a day or two. It wasn't even her job.

Claude was actually rarely there at his residence, even before the war. He knew this, and only had to glance at her once before he had offered up a bed for her. He had also roped her into conducting a few administrative duties in his stead, saints blast his smile, but she found she didn't mind responding to letters on his behalf. There were usually from Lorenz. Any of the important documents were sealed with the Riegan crest and sent straight to Claude, regardless of his location.

Though he's not at the estate often, she knows Claude has a decent grasp of the needs of those he employs. He knew exactly what she had needed when she first arrived, and took to keeping a spare cot in the stables for her, hearing that she enjoyed sleeping beside Dorte. It seemed as though he knew she liked being surrounded by the hay and stench of the horses, despite having a perfectly sound bed.

It kept her grounded as her mind wandered.

And it smelled like the days she'd spend barefoot in the highlands as a child. Days of happiness she had only been able to replicate later on with Byleth, and later still with the Golden Deer.

☆

Dorte snorts in her ear. Chews and chews on a piece of her hair before he spits it out and wipes his lips across her cheek. She scrubs her sleeve against her face, wrinkling her nose as a few strands of saliva drip from it. She's so disgusted that she doesn't turn at the sound of the door opening, doesn't look up from the weathered black boots that are now planted in front of her.

“Thought I'd find you here,” Claude lilts, crouching down to look her in the eyes. She instinctively wants to avoid his gaze. There are things she does not want him to see through, or pick apart, just yet; there is pain that is still fresh and unprocessed. He has a nasty habit of sensing the slightest dip in her mood, and it seems today is no different.

She merely closes her eyes and goes back to leaning against the stall. Her duties are done for the day, and although she hadn't been expecting Claude back for another week or so, his presence isn't entirely unwelcome.

“Something happen?” She asks instead. He huffs a laugh.

“No, everything seems to be coming along smoothly,” he pauses, “as smoothly as war can, at least.”

“You've arrived early,” she says, curious as to why he's sought her out here and now. She feels him settle down beside her. He sits restlessly. Claude is always on the move, if not with his body then with his mind. He does have that _master tactician_ title to live up to.

“You make that sound like a bad thing,” he hums back. She can hear the grin in his honeyed voice.

She cracks an eye open and stares him down, explaining, “You're not one to return without a reason.”

He shrugs at her, and there's that emotion in his eyes again, and she still doesn't know how to read it. The corners of his mouth go up and she knows he's laughing at the same joke he did all those years ago. It must be pretty funny. Or maybe he finds _her_ funny, because it always seems to present itself when she's around.

“Maybe I just wanted to see you,” he offers. He sends her a wink, the wink that is always meant to charm and subsequently break hearts, but it does nothing but loosen the knot in her chest. It _is _good to have him back, even if his statement is laden with bullshit.

“And I'm the Empress of the Adrestian Empire,” she drawls. He winces slightly and she figures maybe she should have went with another choice of words. But it got her point across.

He stays silent, arm brushing against hers as he makes himself comfortable on the horse-trodden floor. He catches her from the corner of his eye, watching as she reaches up to her ear and pulls on the chain that hangs from her lobe. A matching set, he notices, as there is another one hanging from her other ear.

Claude only sees her tug on them absentmindedly, usually when she's trying to sort out her thoughts. It's a sight that occurs more often than he'd like, though he can understand. He yanks on his own hoop for good measure, then turns to look at her.

She's tired. They're all tired, he knows, but she is especially. Whatever life she had lived before he met her is still yet unrevealed to him. The intricacies of it, at least. He had gathered the basics after spending time with Teach; he knew that she had more or less been adopted into their band of mercenaries. Before that though, he did not know. Perhaps it had been peaceful, and that is why the war weighs so heavily on her. Or maybe her exhaustion is simply an inevitable, consuming guilt—the guilt that comes as she buries her blade into the flesh of people she still dreams about.

He has nightmares about them, too. Of their unseeing eyes and twisted faces. Of her already eviscerated corpse being torn apart by phantom hands; of her lying in a pool of blood, her own blood, struggling to breathe as he tries to reach her—he sees all this before he wakes up and realizes that his nightmares could easily turn to cold reality. The thought never comforts him, and he doesn't sleep as often as he used to.

There is a slight tinkling as she plays with her earrings again. They are the only clues he has, the only insight to who she was before she had stumbled her way into his heart. It is agonizing not knowing. He could not pry her secrets from her. Though he had never been fully honest with her, either. He thinks this is one of the reasons she's kept her mouth shut for so long. He doesn't blame her; trust is a commodity hard to come by.

It is rarer still that he knows this and _still_ trusts her. Completely. Claude frequently catches himself pining; of longing to tell her everything—about his lineage, Almyra, and his plans for the future. He wants her to stand by his side as he plots and schemes and _worms _his way into winning this war. It's an unhealthy desire; he feels as though he has burdened her enough, made her see unholy things, and commit atrocities in his name. The expression she wears on her face every time she ventures into battle says it all. By the saints, the fact that she is still here with him is nothing short of a miracle. He can't think of anything he has ever offered her for such loyalty. She remains unbidden.

She sits there, wholly unaware to Claude's inner workings. She sees him stare at the sparkle of gold in her ear. She flicks at it, feels it bounce against her neck, and notices him reach up to touch his own.

“Pierced ears aren't something you traditionally see here in Fódlan,” Claude muses finally, breaking the silence, “in fact, it's pretty much unheard of.”

She blinks at him, “I'm not from Fódlan.” She goes back to fiddling with the chains.

Claude suspected as much, but it is refreshing to hear such unabashed confirmation. He wants to push, push for more information, dig his way into the very depths of her soul, but he reigns himself in.

“Why did you get it done?”

She mulls the question over, pushes her tongue around in her mouth, “It was done when I was too young to remember.”

But then, “They mean nothing, I think.” She corrects, “They're decoration. Something pretty to look at. I'm sure there were those in my village who got them done for cultural or spiritual beliefs. But I wasn't one of them—that's how I see it. My mother pierced them, so maybe she had some other motivation I wasn't aware of.”

Claude tilts his head, absorbing the information.

Now that, that was different from Almyran culture, where they earned their piercings with every life milestone.

“Where are you from?” The question falls out of her mouth before she can stop it. She _can_ wager a guess, based off of his uncertain and seemingly bitter-sweet interactions with Cyril.

“Er,” He pulls at the tips of his gloves; questions like these he prefers not to answer. He is afraid of giving her a piece of who he truly is, when he himself still struggles to accept it.

“You said piercings aren't traditional here.” She looks up at him when she says this, and his breath firmly lodges in his throat. Her eyes have always been beautiful, but they are positively stunning framed by her thick lashes and when kissed lovingly by the afternoon sun. He idly ponders if she would oppose having his lips meet her own.

He gathers himself quickly, gives her that look again, but does not reply.

She sighs as if she can feel his hesitance.

“My home has no name,” she offers, leaning her head on crossed arms that are perched upon her drawn up knees. Claude sits up a little straighter, leans his head against the stall to see her better.

“At least, not one I can remember.” She closes her eyes, “I _do _remember that it was cold for nine moons. It snowed for eight of those. I remember rolling in the snow, laughing with someone...but I can't recall their face. It was colder than Faerghus.” There's a wistful timber in her voice. It wraps his chest with a sombre regret.

“Was it anything like Galatea?”

“It's not—” she lifts her head up and gestures around as she fumbles for words, “-it wasn't like Galatea. There was an abundance of growth; cedars and berry bushes, despite it being colder.” Claude raises a brow at this, at a loss for imagining a place that was colder than Galatea itself, while also being life-giving. Galatea was wrapped in ice half of the year, and nothing more than barren rock for the remaining moons.

“It was all mountains and highlands, low valleys and streams. It was bathed in green and blossoms come spring,” she sighs, “it was the most beautiful place I've ever known. You should have seen the _sunsets_,” her eyes are wide when she glances Claude's way, “they were breathtaking.”

His heart nearly weeps when the words fly out of her mouth, almost as if they were meant for him, _about_ him, and him alone. Claude observes her in silence, but is enraptured.

“We had festivals, every summer. People would come from other lands and set up carts along the mountain passes, sharing their foods and experiences as if nothing else in the world mattered other than a full belly and good friends. It was the time of sowing seeds, and we'd enjoy the sun as we waited for harvest season. Our storytellers would dance in front of the bonfires, eyes bright as they encouraged everyone to dance. Some people would sing,” she grows quiet, “my dad had a wonderful voice.”

Claude catches the past tense_. _He asks her, “Had?”

She stares at him openly, and suddenly she seems exhausted_. _ When her eyes become wet and cheeks become pink, he softens. “They're gone. It's just me.”

As quickly as her emotions had overcome her though, she pushes them away. Byleth had taught her how to do that, although if he were here now, he wouldn't necessarily be pleased to hear it. There is a sharp pang of unwelcome absence in her chest, as she thinks of him. She misses him too.

Claude's thoughts run from him as he looks at her, already left with more questions than answers.

“I'm sorry,” he amends, and it's sincere, but she shrugs, “what happened?”

“I think I've shared enough,” her tone is teasing but taut as a bow string, and Claude decides to retreat for the day before he, too, can drown in the pain he hears in her voice, “it's your turn.”

Silence envelopes them.

“Almyra,” he says after a moment, giving her the answer before gauging her reaction. He's only mildly surprised when she nods as if in confirmation of something. He has to give her credit where it is due; when she is paying attention, she can catch things even his trained eyes might miss, “But you already knew that, didn't you?”

She nods again, slightly, “I had my suspicions. You have a soft spot for Cyril.”

He chuckles, “And here I thought I was being _sneaky_.”

She breathes out something that sounds suspiciously like a laugh. It gives him hope.

“What's Almyra like?” She asks. Claude would be called a liar if he denied the relief that spread through his chest. There is no judgment in her voice, no element of anger or betrayal when she asks him that question. Her genuine interest belays any unease he has, and he breathes out an almost imperceptible sigh. The peace with Almyra is tentative at best; it is yet another worry that sits upon his shoulders. Claude knows one day his duty will call him back home to the plains, but for now he has business here, with her, and with this war.

There is a distant part of him that decides it is because she isn't from Fódlan—maybe she isn't even from this _continent_, he thinks belatedly—that has her accepting his statement with passivity. Maybe she doesn't know the history between the nations, although he likes to think she does, and that she's okay with him anyway. He has spent a lifetime of not-belonging, but he wants to feel like he belongs with her.

“It's warm,” he responds instead, blinking away his thoughts, “all grassy plains and clear skies. Almyrans often hold festivals too; lots of singing and dancing and food. The feasts and the music are incredible.” he seems to shine in the sun as he remembers. She hopes they are fond memories.

“The celebrations have more to do with success in conquest than the harvest, though,” he carries on, almost solemnly. “A people of war, that's how Almyrans are seen. It's not exactly a lie, but it's not the full truth either. I'd like to think that they fight just as hard as they love.”

She slides towards him, closing the small gap between them.

“But Almyra isn't perfect; the people aren't perfect,” he admits, “a lot needs to change.”

She regards him closely. He thinks that is warmth on her face.

“We're trained from a young age,” he explains, “thrown into pits with axes and bows, and then watched after we're told that only one can remain standing. A lot of time is spent wasted on strength, and whether or not you have it.” He gives her a mirthless laugh.

“And your earring?”

He halts for a moment, “It's to symbolize a milestone.” He gestures at the gold hoop in his ear, “You can earn more than this, I only managed to snag one.”

“Let me guess, your prowess with the bow?”

Claude can only bring himself to laugh at how quickly she catches on.

“Why only one, though?”

“Well,” he pauses, “I came here.”

She looks at him, and for the first time, she's unreadable.

He wants to tell her he fled. He wants to make it clear just how much he's suffered because he's _different; _because he's too much of one thing for one place, and not enough of the same thing for the other. But he doesn't, not just yet. And she, by some saint's blessing, doesn't push the issue. Even with his a-beat-too-late response.

“I wish I remembered as much as you do,” she murmurs, “it's been so long since I've been in the highlands that I'm afraid I'll forget even the smell of the sea.”

“We can get you back,” Claude tells her, “after this is over and everyone is...safe.”

“I wouldn't know how to get back even if I wanted to,” she counters, “I was small. I only recall glimpses; a field of purple flowers, towering fortresses, a ship.” She blinks, “But that's it. I don't know where home _is_ anymore.”

Claude wants to pull her close because he understands what she's saying; he wants to whisper in her ear that he can feel the truth of that in his _bones_, that he knows what it's like to have no home even though he has roots in two different places, in two completely different lands.

Instead, he gives her a lopsided grin.

“Did it hurt?” There's a moment of quiet before he realizes she's asking about the golden hoop on his lobe.

“The earring? Nah, it was barely a pinch.”

He enjoys the way she seems to analyze him. He'd bare his secrets to her if he could. He _would_, when the time was right. He's pretty sure he's already told her too much. It's not like him to be so careless.

Her silence stretches on long enough that Claude takes it as a cue he's no longer wanted, and goes to get up. But her quiet voice stills him, hesitant in all its soft-spoken glory, “Can you take me there? One day, I mean, when the war is over.” _If we survive, _she seems to say, and then, “Do they give warriors piercings too?”

“Warriors?” There's a small quirk of his mouth at the way she phrases it.

“Well, I'm certainly not a soldier. Or a knight. They tend to uphold some sort of moral code,” she turns away from him, “and I haven't. Not when I've taken the lives of so many I used to share meals with.”

Claude seems to be at a loss for words. It's not often that he becomes unwillingly tongue-tied, but he is unsure of what he should say in the face of her grief—of his grief, even; for flinching at the truth in her words and recognizing the same sins within him.

The hay rustles beside her and she startles at the gentle touch on her chin. Claude's fingers are warm from his glove, feather-light as they maneuver her to hold his gaze. His green eyes are full of empathy; they're so _kind_ that she can barely stand to look at him. It makes her heart seize at the sight, and she squeezes her eyes shut.

He tilts her face up, and even though her eyes are closed, she can tell he's giving her one of those smiles; a smile that tells someone he _gets it_ but doesn't quite know how to make things better. It is the same smile that doesn't reach his eyes and makes him appear years older. She supposes that comes with the burden of being a leader; the unavoidable want to fix things that can never be truly mended.

And all at once she feels sick, because the last thing she had _ever _wanted was to tack her problems onto his only-growing list of responsibilities and heartache. She knows it is not easy for him; bright eyes and dimpled cheeks be damned.

So she opens her eyes, and his expression changes. It's still strained with concern, but it's also light around the edges. He drifts closer to her. She blinks at the comfortable sensation of his forehead against hers.

“I'll take you there,” he breathes, “to Almyra. Some...things that need to be completed there, still. But if you want, when all is said and done, you can come and call it home with me.”

A small smile graces her lips, he notices, and it's good to see she hasn't forgotten how to use the muscles in her face. It had worried him once, not being able to see it, since her smile to him is akin to the glow of the sun.

“We could even get matching piercings. How about a skull and crossbones? Doesn't that scream _victor_ to you?”

She lets out a small chuckle, “Let's not get ahead of ourselves. There's still a lot of war to be fought.”

But she can see the pout forming on his lips, so she thinks about it, “How about a deer? A _golden_ deer?”

When she snickers at her terrible pun, Claude's smile finally reaches his eyes.

"Absolutely not," he laughs as he takes her hand, "but we'll figure it out, you and I together."

**Author's Note:**

> im sorry for what i did to ashe


End file.
